CHAPTER TWENTY
Nadine called her attorney before she put on her robe.
I knew because I heard her say, “No, I haven’t answered the email,” from the bathroom while I stood in her finished kitchen making coffee in a machine I had installed but never used.
We had slept less than three hours. I poured two cups and left hers on the island. When Nadine came downstairs, she had changed into black trousers, a cream sweater, and the expression she wore when fear had been forced into a smaller room so work could happen.
“My attorney can meet me at eight,” she said.
“What time is the foundation meeting?”
“Nine.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
I nodded. “Okay.”
Her attention stayed on my face as if she expected resistance. I gave her none.
“Don’t do that calm thing and then go around me,” she said.
“I’m going to my office.”
“And?”
“I’m preserving Mercer Row’s records, calling our attorney, and making sure nobody changes, deletes, explains, improves, or cleans up anything.”
Nadine picked up the coffee. “That sounds like you.”
“It is me.”
“I need this to be mine first.”
“I heard you.”
She took a drink and closed her eyes for half a second. “You make it too strong.”
“You bought the beans.”
“I bought medium roast.”
“The machine has settings.”
“You installed the machine.”
“I didn’t select seven.”
“That number looked reasonable.”
“It is a coffee maker, not a grant score.”
The corner of her mouth moved. The smile did not stay, but I had not expected it to. Her phone rang on the island.
Portia.
Nadine looked at the screen and let it ring.
“She knows?” I asked.
“I texted her not to call before seven.”
“It is after six.”
“Exactly.”
The phone stopped. Three seconds later, it started again.
Nadine answered. “Somebody better be bleeding.”
Portia’s voice came through loud enough for me to hear. “I’m about to make somebody bleed. What the hell does formal disclosure meeting mean?”
“It means I have a meeting.”
“Do you need me to come?”
“No.”
“Do you need me to leak something?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you need me to sit outside and look expensive?”
Nadine glanced at me. “I already have an attorney for that.”
“That cousin of mine dresses like probate.”
“She wins.”
“She does. Fine. I’ll wait.”
“Quietly.”
Portia went silent long enough to make the promise unbelievable.
“I love you,” she said finally.
“I love you too. Don’t post anything.”
“Now you’re insulting me.”
Nadine ended the call. I rinsed my cup and set it in the dishwasher.
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
“You said the meeting is yours first.”
“I did.”
“Then I’m giving it to you.”
She looked toward the front windows. Morning had started to turn the glass gray.
“What if they ask when we started?”
“Tell them.”
“What if they decide the first date means everything before it was dirty too?”
“Then the records say otherwise.”
“You trust records a lot.”
“They are useful when people start remembering with an agenda.”
Nadine’s fingers tightened around the mug. “Warren, I can’t lose my job because I slept with my contractor.”
The sentence carried shame she did not owe me.
“You didn’t hire Mercer Row for the gallery,” I said. “You did not approve our proposal. You did not approve invoices. You paid for your house according to the contract. Those facts exist whether we slept together or not.”
“That wasn’t the only thing I said.”
“No.”
I stepped closer, but I did not touch her until she shifted toward me.
“You can be scared,” I said. “I’m not going to use it as permission to take over.”
Her forehead rested against my chest.
“Say that again around eleven,” she muttered. “You might forget.”
“I wrote it down.”
She laughed once, then pressed her face harder against my shirt.
I held her until the phone rang again.
This time it was her attorney.
I left through the front door with my overnight bag and no copy of the email.
Nadine had forwarded it to her counsel, not me.
That mattered. At Mercer Row, Milan was already in the conference room with our operations manager and the administrator who controlled archived project files.
Cedric stood near the window in a work jacket, coffee in one hand.
I had called all four of them from the truck.
Nobody asked whether Nadine and I were together.
The foundation email had already answered that.
I closed the door.
“This is a preservation meeting,” I said. “Not a strategy meeting and not a gossip meeting.”
The administrator opened her laptop.
“Freeze every file connected to the gallery project and the Bellamy townhouse. Emails, texts sent through company phones, proposals, invoices, vendor communications, photographs, camera footage, change orders, payment records, site logs, design revisions, all of it. Make a read-only copy with a timestamp. Nobody edits metadata. Nobody replaces a blurry scan because a cleaner one looks better.”
She nodded and started typing.
“Milan, your design folder too.”
“It is already in the project drive.”
“Personal devices?”
She looked at me. “I texted Nadine material pictures from my phone.”
“Preserve the thread. Do not delete unrelated messages to make the folder look clean.”
“I know.”
“I’m saying it to everybody.”
Cedric lifted his cup. “My site phone still has the leak pictures and Terrence at the door.”
“Keep them. Upload a forensic copy before the phone leaves this building.”
Our operations manager asked, “Are we expecting a lawsuit?”
“No.”
“An audit?”
“Possibly. The foundation is reviewing whether Nadine had a conflict involving Mercer Row.”
Milan sat straighter. “She didn’t pick us for the gallery.”
“I know.”
“She wasn’t even on the facilities committee.”
“I know.”
“And the house contract came later.”
“I know that too.”
Her mouth tightened. I understood the anger. I did not let it run the meeting.
“Facts first,” I said. “Feelings somewhere they cannot alter facts.”
Cedric looked toward the glass wall. “You want the crew told?”
“Only that project records are under legal hold and nobody discusses clients outside work. No names. No speculation.”
“Done.”
I called our attorney after the meeting. She asked for the foundation email, the original gallery procurement file, Nadine’s townhouse contract, and Mercer Row’s internal relationship disclosure.
That was the form Nadine had joked about in my kitchen.
I had signed it the morning after our first date, disclosed that I was seeing an active residential client, and reassigned day-to-day project approvals to our operations manager.
Nadine still approved her own selections and paid Mercer Row.
I stopped approving discounts, credits, schedule changes, or disputed charges.
Every financial decision required a second signature.
I had created the policy after a project manager dated a client twelve years earlier and then tried to hide free work inside labor codes.
I had not created it because I expected to need it.
By ten thirty, the conference table held three binders.
The gallery project was simple. Mercer Row had responded to a competitive request issued by the property owner.
A five-person facilities committee selected us.
Nadine’s foundation reimbursed part of the youth-studio construction through a preservation grant.
Nadine administered program outcomes, not construction procurement.
Her name appeared on two meeting minutes, both after the contract award, both regarding access for students.
The townhouse file was messier because houses always were.
Water damage credit. Beam change order. Cabinet fraud attempt.
Milan’s architectural services included inside the construction fee.
A reduced labor charge after Cedric’s subcontractor caused the leak.
Nothing free. Nothing hidden. Still, I saw how somebody could stack the pages wrong and make responsibility look like a favor.
At eleven fourteen, my attorney called again.
“The foundation sent a records request,” she said. “They want the gallery bid, Nadine’s residential contract, and all credits applied to her account.”
“Send everything responsive.”
“Through me.”
“Yes.”
“Do not contact the board chair.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You own a construction company. Men who own construction companies always think they know a donor.”
“I know several.”
“That was not encouragement.”
I looked at the water credit. “What exactly are they alleging?”
“They haven’t given us the complaint yet. The request references an undisclosed relationship, favorable vendor treatment, and personal benefits received through a grant-connected contractor.”
“Personal benefits.”
“Likely the townhouse credits.”
“Those were contractual corrections.”
“Then the paper will show it.”
I disliked hearing my own sentence returned to me.
“Has Nadine called?” I asked.
“No. I represent Mercer Row, not Nadine.”
“I know.”
“Then let her attorney do her job.”
“I am.”
“Good. Keep doing it.”
The call ended.
I did not text Nadine.
At noon, I did not text her.
At one fifteen, I picked up the phone, opened our message thread, and put it back down.
At one forty-two, she called.
I answered before the first ring finished.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“They put me on paid leave.”
The room changed temperature.
“For how long?”
“Until the committee finishes the review. They said ten business days, maybe less.”
“What do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“No, it’s not okay.”
“I did not say the situation was okay.”
“You said okay.”
“I meant you don’t have to know yet.”
Silence moved across the line.
Then she said, “They had my townhouse invoice.”
I sat down.
“The foundation?”
“The complaint included it. The original contract, the water-damage credit, and a screenshot of the project portal showing Milan’s design fee as included.”
“Did they say who filed it?”
“No.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“My attorney does.”
I waited.
Nadine exhaled. “You’re doing very good not asking me to forward it.”
“It is costing me.”
“I can hear that.”
“Are you home?”
“In my car.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“I don’t want a binder.”
“I’ll leave it here.”
“I don’t want you telling me who to call.”
“I won’t.”
“I don’t want dinner in plastic containers with labels.”
“That removes most of my plan.”
A small sound came through the phone. Not quite a laugh.
“Come over,” she said. “Bring yourself. That’s it.”
I looked at the three binders on the table. For once, the work could wait in the room where it belonged.
“I’m on my way.”